by J. Caleb Thomas For as long as I can remember, Mother rang a silver bell every morning at six. It was small enough to fit in her palm but loud enough to wake the dead. Even when she was bedridden and pale with fever, she kept it on the…
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Nothing is Lost, Where Memories Lie
by John Ballantine I spent the weekend at the reformatory spinning bowls. Sometimes I had birthdays in the haystacks with women locked up for prostitution and burglary. During the summer Chain Saw Jack, in a cavernous dormitory, dripping with sweat, told me how he had cut off his wife’s head…